To Be a Brother
by AishiteSubete
Summary: Ivan bombs New York City, putting Alfred into a coma and on the verge of death. Arthur swears his revenge on the man who hurt his brother. Friendship!USUK. Warning for gore & character death.


**Title: To Be a Brother****  
><strong>**Author: AishiteSubete  
>Rating: M<br>Genre: Family/Horror  
>Summary: <strong>_**Ivan bombs New York City, putting Alfred into a coma and on the verge of death. Arthur swears his revenge on the man who hurt his brother.  
><strong>_**Warnings: This contains drinking, coarse language, and intense violence and blood. Human names are used. There are also references and out-of-context-ness of the FOX movie, Anastasia. Russia is also less awesome in this than I think he really is. There is also character death. If this isn't your cup of tea, please click the back button.****  
><strong>**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia or Anastasia. I'm just a girl using fanfiction to calm herself before honor band auditions.**

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><p><span>TO BE A BROTHER<span>

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><p>It was eleven twenty-three A.M. on a beautiful, cloudless Thursday in London, England. Arthur Kirkland, the personification of the United Kingdom, was sitting in his garden, sipping a cup of tea. On beautiful days like that one, the blond enjoyed getting out and breathing fresh air; it was much more refreshing than spending his days cooped up in his lavish home or in airports, travelling to diplomatic meetings between the nations.<p>

His only visitor was his smaller brother, Peter Kirkland, the young nation wannabe who did everything in his power to be recognized. While Arthur, however, enjoyed his time outdoors, Peter stayed inside and played his American or Japanese-made videogames. The Brit gave a wry smile each time he thought of the innocence of Peter. He wanted to be a full-fleged nation, but didn't understand the horrors and heartache that came along with such responsibility; Arthur felt his own scars sting at the thought.

It was when Arthur finished off his cup of tea that Peter came sprinting from the mansion, his face contorted into a look of horror, his jade eyes wide with panic and terror. "Arthur!" The tone in the high-pitched voice caused Arthur to drop his teacup and rise from his seat on impulse. Though he was young, Peter had the calm demeanor of a true nation when it came to something serious; the fact he was so panicked sent a shiver of uneasiness through Arthur's spine.

"Peter? What is it?"

"It's Alfred!" Arthur could see the tears forming in the corners of Peter's large eyes and he felt his own blood turn to ice. "America's in trouble; New York City is gone! It's been completely destroyed!"

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><p>Alfred F. Jones was bubbly, energetic, oblivious, and always happy. The young blond was always excited about life and its opportunities, looking towards the next day with confidence and happiness, even in the bad times. It was one of the many reasons Arthur was so proud about having been the one to raise him, at least partially.<p>

Seeing the man lying in a hospital bed, pale as death and cold as stone, sent Arthur out of the room immediately to throw is guts up in a bathroom.

It had been three days since Alfred and fallen comatose and Arthur hadn't left his side since he arrived in the room six hours after the incident. The British nation still wasn't sure what had happened to cause this, even though the press was in a tizzy about it globally.

Many nations had been in and out to see Alfred. Spain, Japan, the Italies, Germany, Australia, and plenty of others came into to pledge their support to America and their army during the upcoming war. As he held Alfred's hand, he often thought to himself "_War? What war?_" before turning his attention to the poor, former colony in the sickbed.

Francis and Matthew were the next to arrive, the Frenchman shutting the door behind them. "'Ello, Arthur," Francis said, his eyes lacking their typical sparkle, his personality devoid of its lecherous, seductive demeanor. The introverted Matthew seemed to turn in on himself even more, his face turning ghostly white at the sight of his twin brother. "It's nice to see you once more, but not under these circumstances."

Arthur didn't make a sound, simply choosing to nod in Francis's direction instead. Matthew took a spot on the other side of Alfred, holding the hand currently not occupied with Arthur's. Crystal-clear tears poured down the northern nation's face as he stroked the back of his twin's hand with his thumb, clearly remembering the good times they had had together. Francis stood at the foot of the bed, his arms folded over his chest, studying the two mourning blonds in front of him. "Do you know what is going on?" The question was obviously directed towards England, who shook his head numbly in response.

"The countries that came in to visit earlier mentioned something about supporting American in a war," Britain murmured sadly, brokenly. "What happened, Francis?"

Franics turned his head to the side, his eyes focusing on a corner of the room before he continued. "Thursday morning at eleven-ten, Ivan dropped a nuclear bomb on New York City in the name of Russia." Arthur felt his heart stop and the bile rise into the back of his throat. "New York City was completely destroyed and levelled to the ground. A huge portion of the population was killed instantly, and many died soon later from severe injuries. Those who left apparently uninjured will probably die of radiation poisoning in the coming years. Professionals guess that everyone who was in a large vicinity of the drop zone will die at some point."

The blond Frenchman surveyed Arthur for response, recieving nothing but a look of horror, shock, and complete disgust on his face; Francis took it as a signal to continue with the story. "American Congress declared immediate war against Russia and ze news spread worldwide within minutes of ze event occurring. Militaries are combining to take on ze threat zat Russia 'as posed. Iran and Pakistan 'ave already joined forces with Ivan, as well as Cuba. I'm assuming Laos and Vietnam 'ave as well, but due to Lien's loyalty to 'er Asian siblings, there's a chance she could remain neutral. Zere is far more support for ze United States zan Russia, and even though I hate Americans, I still pledge my support to Alfred."

Arthur looked at Francis, shell shocked and completely astounded by what had happened. "So...Russia?" Francis nodded. "Why?"

The romance nation shrugged his shoulders. "No one knows why. All we know is zat it 'as 'appened, and zat can't be changed." Arthur nodded in understanding, his hand gripping Alfred's considerably tighter.

_I'll get revenge for you, Alfred._

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><p>The country of Russia was cold as ice, and Arthur's demeanor as he approached Ivan's home was just as such. The island nation hadn't felt the way he did in what felt like forever; he felt far less like the gentleman he wanted to portray himself as and more like the harsh individual he was when he sailed the seas. As he entered the gates of Ivan's estate, he laughed at his own poor comparison. If he wanted to feel like a pirate, he would have worn the captain's hat with the large, ornate flowers on the brim. But Arthur didn't want to relive his pirate days tonight; no, tonight he wanted to be something far more different.<p>

He wanted to be the big brother to Alfred he never was in the past.

Arthur was ushered in by a few servants, none of whom knowing who he was. The country that often dabbled in black magic wore one of his ceremonial cloaks, hiding his face from the cautious individuals who showed him around Ivan's home. The floor was made of marble, the walls structured with wooden frames and plaster, much like the home of a normal British or American citizen. The décor was exquisite, though; gorgeous paintings, detailed tapestries, and cleverly-crafted ornaments hung from all corners of the rooms Arthur visited. There was at least one vase of sunflowers in every room.

"Ivan is through those doors."

Arthur said nothing to the servant, choosing only to incline his head and flick his wrist as a hint for the scrawny man to move on. (Which he rapidly did). The blond pushed past the doors himself, entering into a cozy room filled with heat, plush armchairs, and an Ivan Braginsky sitting in front of the fire.

"Hello, Arthur," Ivan welcomed, his voice containing the ever-pleasant lilt it always carried. "Come to discuss a treaty for the war? I heard from a little birdie that you're heading all the national personifications, da?"

The Briton stiffened, watching as Ivan rose from his armchair like a daunting giant and turned to face him. What was there to say to the madman? "In a way," Arthur stated, surprising even himself with his forwardness. "But I work alone."

Ivan chuckled, touching the lead pipe at his waist in an almost loving matter. Arthur had a gun concealed in his trousers, a knife up his sleeve, and the ability of black magic. The Russian was woefully outmatched in weaponry, but posed a threat with his sheer brute force. Russia was a strong country—or maybe, as Arthur had wondered so many times—could be on the decline in that regard? "I take it you're not here to discuss an armistice," Ivan mused, moving his beloved pipe from his belt to the space in front of him. "So be it, then."

Russia moved with speed that shouldn't have been possible for someone of his size, weight, and stature; Arthur, though, responded with equal speed. When the violet-eyed nation swung his pipe, the blond wrapped himself in his cloak, disappearing in this air to reappear behind the taller man.

The sound of a pistol rang out with the sound of a bullet hitting flesh. The lead lodged itself between Ivan's shoulder blades, tearing straight through bone and muscle to come out the other side. Ivan laughed; as a nation he was far too strong to be killed by a single bullet. Arthur took aim once more. He wanted to end this fight quickly and with as little harm to himself as possible. He pulled the trigger twice more, maybe even three times more, watching as the lead shot through Ivan's body as if he wasn't even there.

The man called Ivan Braginsky had little going for him in this battle, with the exception of his pipe and his own brute strength. The level, bright laughter that came from the brute as he faced Arthur once more could throw even the toughest soldier off-balance. The sound barely fazed the Briton as he cocked his weapon and took aim at the patch of skin between the Russian nation's eyes.

"You're upset, da?" The Russian laughed, raising his arm and throwing the pipe at England furiously. Though the blond dodged, he felt the pain of the metal grazing his ribcage, possibly cracking bone. "I put your American bitch into a coma, and you want my head. You won't get it."

"You don't have your pipe." Arthur said matter-of-factly, firing another shot into the air. Ivan lifted his arm to catch the bullet in a leather-gloved hand, smirking at the island nation as he dropped the powdered substance onto the floor below.

"But I have my brute strength." As Ivan charged at him, Arthur looked to fire another round from his gun, but realized with cold blood running through his veins that his gun had jammed and his chance to fire a shot was gone. Dropping the weapon, he let the knife slip from his sleeve as the oversized Russian fell upon him, the blade digging into the flesh presented to it. Ivan's eyes widened in shock at the intrusion in his chest; Arthur twisted the blade, causing the giant to howl as it sliced away painfully at his soft, hypersensitive internal tissue. The Brit fell to the ground, rolling over slowly to find himself on top of the Russian, ripping out the knife and jamming it into his abdomen with the maximum of his immortal strength. With the force of the blow, the blade went through Ivan's body, Arthur's hand following the weapon and sinking into the body below him; he could feel the tissues and organs throbbing against his skin.

Arthur laughed, wrenching the knife from Ivan's guts, staring in grotesque fashion at the blood coating his hand and oozing from the wounds on the Russian's body. He continued his assault on the man beneath him, letting the steel sheath itself in the giant's frame. He moved with the frenzy of a madman, desiring nothing but to watch the life drain away from the nation's embodiment.

"Hey Ivan," the British nation mumbled in a lilting, sing-song voice. "You're quite familiar with demons, aren't you?" Ivan spluttered out an answer that couldn't be discerned, Arthur smirking as he watched the blood stream from the corners of the taller nation's mouth. He could feel the air around him morphing, changing, bending to his will. He was a practitioner of black magic, could control the very evil that Ivan was made of. "Do you remember your darling lost duchess, Anastasia? I always heard you tried to save her from her death, but not even you could rescue her as Rasputin's demons dragged her to the abyss." He noticed the shudder that ran through Ivan's bleeding body at the mention of his long-gone lover. The blond threw his knife away, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter. His hands tightened on the scarf the Russian always wore—the one his dear sister made for him—pulling on it intently, watching as it tightened around his throat.

Watching as the air rippled around him and his victim, he began to chant: "_Demons, monsters, creatures dark and perverse, take this kinsman of yours, give him what he deserves. Tear, chew, gnaw, and rip, show him the pain of destruction he's let slip_." The Briton pulled on the scarf, watching as the tiny green creatures he recognized as demons began to surface from thin air, migrating around towards the Russian's face. Greedily, they bit into the flesh that was offered them, the screams of pain from the Russian egging them on, making the feast that much more delicious. With one strong yank, Arthur gave a final tug on the scarf, holding it tight and fast around Ivan's neck, successfully blocking off his air supply. When the man went limp and his attempts to breathe and struggle came to a halt, Arthur let go, standing, turning on his heel and walking from the estate, leaving Ivan Braginsky as food for the demons.

As he left Russian airspace, landing safely in the London airport, he made a few calls and pulled a few strings. Within moments of getting back to his own home, nestled away in a British forest, he started a cup of tea before even ridding himself of the blood on in hands.

He checked the time; he had only been home for fifteen minutes. Picking up his phone, he made one final call: "Level them."

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><p>It had been a month since Great Britain had wiped the country of Russia off the face of the planet. The countries that had allied with the world's largest nation—Iran, Pakistan, Uzbekistan, Laos, Vietnam, Cuba, Ukraine, and Belarus—had quickly surrendered upon seeing the destruction England caused. Natalya and Yekaterina mourned the loss of their older brother, to which Arthur wasn't sure if it made him feel guilty or not.<p>

With the help of many of the other American allies, New York City began to be rebuilt, with England at the head of the reconstruction. Kiku provided street layouts (his own capital city of Tokyo had a similar street grid) and Heracles, Feliciano, and Romano worked on the architecture. With the help of all the countries, New York City was completely and entirely rebuilt—a symbol of how every country worked together to help rebuild one of the world's greatest nations.

Arthur was in the hospital room in Pennsylvania, holding Alfred's hand when the great country of America woke up. Alfred moved to sit up straighter in his bed, looking at the nation who had tears welling in his eyes. "Hey, 'sup British dude!" Alfred said cheerily, his lips curving into his typical, obnoxiously happy smile. "What the hell happened? One moment I was playing videogames with Canadia and now I'm waking up in a hospital."

England recounted everything to America; how New York City was destroyed completely, how a war was started between America and Russia, how England singlehandedly wiped Russia from the map in revenge, and how all of America's allies worked together to rebuild his destroyed city.

It was this moment when Alfred felt his own eyes well with tears. He grabbed his former mentor, pulling him into a crushing hug. The Briton, who was taken completely unaware, felt his own surprised expression soften into a smile as he put his arms around his little brother.

"I did it for you," England muttered into the shoulder of Alfred's hospital gown. "To make up for all those times I neglected you. It was time I started acting like a big brother."

Alfred smiled, hugging his sibling all the tighter. "You did a damn good job."

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><p><strong>AN: Fluffy ending is super fluffy. If these are OOC, I'm super-sorry; I couldn't resist the temptation to write something like this, with a little bit of family fluff & gore. **


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